Both Ways, Sometimes
by falcon1701
Summary: Set end of season two, before season three, House and Wilson have already been through a lot but they've both reached a crossroads, in their lives, in their relationship, choices are made, and things start to look a lot different . . . House/Wilson. Reviews are love, thank you.
1. Chapter 1

My shoulder hit the door. I dragged my back leg back, obviously I'd over-shot it; and grabbed the cold metal of the handle, yanking the door open. Wilson looked up in surprise. Me running into his door is hard to miss.

"We should just share the same office," I suggested with bitterness, disliking the almost pitying look on Wilson's face as he glanced from me to the door. Gimping across the room I threw my cane on his couch, balancing on one leg as I turned on my heel, sitting down with a sigh, "That way I won't have to stagger my way across the entire hospital to come harass you," I raised both my arms to the back of the couch, leaning my head back.

"You need the exercise," Wilson commented from his desk.

I lifted my head, giving him my best injured expression.

"Well, you know what I mean," he said, shrugging one shoulder, leaning over the pile of papers he was assiduously working on.

"Are you saying I'm out of shape?" I asked in a hurt voice, regarding him coldly through narrowed eyes.

"No," Wilson responded hotly, pen bouncing in his hand, "You're not out of shape, but exercise is a good idea for everyone. Like drinking plenty of liquids or eating apples,"

"Is this your way of telling me I have a problem? Just say it, I can take it,"

"I'm not telling you anything. I just made a simple comment,"

I let one arm fall in my lap, tilting my head to the side, "Simple to you, hurtful to me,"

"I _am_ trying to do some work here," he said, glaring at me before returning his attention to his desk.

"You _do_ think I'm fat,"

"I do not!"

"Right. Not so much to qualify for the Big'n Tall store, just enough to be called a little pudgy,"

"House I didn't mean you're fat! You're not, at all, you have a great body, what I meant was your leg could—" he stopped suddenly, no longer holding his pen, having set it down in the middle of some overzealous hand gesture, "—use the exercise," His hand found the pen again, brow furrowed as he went back to his all-important paperwork, shaking his head slightly, then muttering, "You know what I mean,"

Interesting. I paused just long enough that it broke our rhythm. If anyone broke it, it was usually deliberate, and usually me, not Wilson. Maybe this is one of those fishing for compliments things, he says I have a great body and I say thanks, those are nice shoes.

"Hate to let a great body go to waste," I replied after the moment's pause, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees, passing my hand quickly over my aching brow, "Maybe I'm in the wrong business,"

"Yeah, you'd really saves lives as a model,"

"Everyone has to die sometime—might as well be by an overdose of me,"

"Always the humble doctor," Wilson said, catching my attention, "So did you come here for a reason, other than distracting me?"

"Am I that distracting to you? I'm just sitting here," I said innocently.

He almost glared but took a breath instead, "No, really, what is it?"

"Just another of the multitude of sick people that just keep getting sicker," I rolled my eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, "It's one of Cameron's favourites,"

"Lemme guess,"

"That's right, the infamous my-immune-system-could-kick-your-immune-system's-ass disorder,"

"And then turn right back around and kick its own ass," Wilson provided, "That's it?"

"No—it's also completely and utterly boring," I said impatiently, mind turning to the pill bottle I could feel in my pocket. Seven left.

"And . . . you came here for excitement?"

I came here because I was lonely. Because I have no where else to go. Without a good case my mind's about as open as a glacier. Open and dark. If I don't find _something_ to focus on I'm lost.

The increasing amounts of pills I'm taking aren't something. They're not anything. If they were they'd mean something, they'd matter, but instead all they've become is a ghost over my thoughts, always there. They're all I think about. Within seconds of waking up I think about them and seconds before falling asleep they're there. I don't even know when it happened

"If I said yes would you do something exciting?" I asked him.

"Like what?" he asked, almost laughing, eyes still on his desk as his hand scribbled away at something as if I couldn't see he hadn't turned a page or written so much as a line since I'd come in.

What an opportunity. Finding the limits of James Wilson. I guess I'm just doing this to annoy him, that's entertaining. Given how bored I am, there isn't much else to do. But then that's funny because I never really get bored, just disinterested. My mind switches to something else, some other problem, if I want it to or not. So distractions serve to keep my mind occupied with a specific thing. Otherwise it never stops. Maybe I'm lucky to have Wilson then.

I took a deep breath, letting it out dramatically, "Let's see, what could possibly break up the endless, mundane routine of our disturbingly domestic lives?" I directed my eyes toward the ceiling in thought, "How about, for a start, you set fire to all your paperwork, all your files, jump out that window there, get on my bike with me and ride off into the proverbial sunset and all the sick people be damned,"

He smiled, "No, seriously, what?"

I pursed my lips, squinting, "Which part wasn't serious?"

"I'm not going to start a fire in a hospital!"

"Not even a small one?"

"No!"

"Fine . . . no fire," I agreed reluctantly, "But the least you could do is throw them across the room . . . spill your sickeningly sweet coffee all over them in hopes that the crystals will eat them away beyond all recognition,"

"And _that_ would make you happy?"

"Dunno, how do you feel about the jumping out of the window part?

"I might," he said amiably, "Though breaking an ankle doesn't sound that exciting to me,"

I rolled my eyes. I didn't _want_ Wilson to jump out the window. I just wanted to see if he'd do it.

"You won't start a fire, you won't jump out the window," I reached for my cane, standing it up on the floor to spin it on the ground between my knees, "You're no fun at all,"

"Hey, not fair, you didn't ask about all of them," he retorted accusingly.

I glanced up at him, dejected, laying my cane across my knees, "I deduced a likely pattern to your answers,"

Wilson stared calmly and steadily at me from across the room, with the kind of look he gave when he knew something was bothering me. He's not as dumb as everyone else. Of course to him everything was a page out of a psych exam. Did he know how annoying it was to be stared at like that? Stared at to death by eyes that have no business being that consoling. He must be aware of it. His eyes are too pretty to be otherwise.

My stomach turned, it's amazing how you can start to feel sick when threatened by something as serious as a sincere conversation. Who knows, maybe one day he'll actually get to me. One of these days I'll break down, end up crying in his arms. He'd probably like that. Finally, House is getting in touch with his feelings.

"I'm going to go get some coffee," I said abruptly, getting up as gracefully as I could with it being nearly six hours without any Vicodin. Well, closer to five. I moved toward the door, looking over my shoulder, "Need the caffeine. Haven't eaten today. Too much excitement,"

"House," Wilson shouted as I stopped, leaning heavily on my cane but not turning around. I heard his chair being pushed back, pen hitting the desk.

"Yeah?" I responded in falsely sweet voice, turning to face him. He was interrupting my quick, limping exit.

He put both hands on his hips, looking like he had something really good to say but just couldn't say it. What a time to start hesitating before talking to me.

"I'm going to be leaving soon," he said, meeting my eyes, "We could get some coffee then, or if you're hungry more of a dinner thing, or coffee and dinner thing,"

"I dunno, I really should be watching my weight,"

Wilson's earlier comment echoed somewhere in my brain. He'd said I had a great body. My mocking stare might have faltered for a moment. Mainly because the next thought in that disconcerting train of thought was that Wilson had been looking at my body. Which in turn made me think of his.

I turned my thoughts back to his offer. I was hungry. I thought of saying no. Then a brief but lovely image of pale TV light and a bottle of pills spilled across my coffee table in my dark apartment played grimly through my head—a forewarning of what my night would most likely be like. Of course, it would make sense for Wilson to forget his offer just as I was dreading another melancholy evening at home. That's just the way things work with me.

"You have a high metabolism," he said as a justification. Justification in what I assumed was the food, not the dinner with him.

"Don't you think talking about someone's metabolism's a little personal?"

"Would it bother you to know that I know your shoe size too?"

"No, because I know yours," I said, "I get to pick the place though,"

"Fair enough," he said with a nod.

For a man that had seemed so busy just a moment ago he was sure ready to leave in a hurry. In a roundabout way I had been the one that had asked him, he'd just been the clearer one. I'd expected him to say no. In some weird way wanted him to say no. I'd asked him to jump out a window and in a backwards way he'd interpreted it as something like going out to dinner. My mind is twisted even from my point of view.

I waited by the door, resting all my weight on my good leg. He took his jacket off the back of his chair, tugging it on and straightening the collar. Wilson is a contradiction. On one hand he's a calming. Some people might say that's why I hang around him so much. But on the other hand he's wound up so tight it's a wonder he doesn't snap. I wonder what would happen if he did, I mused, at the same moment he turned to look at me, "Ready?"

"Yeah," I affirmed, turning around and quickly pulling open the door. Wilson automatically reached above me and grabbed it to let me through.

Wilson waved goodbye to the nurse at the desk on the way out; a useless gesture but predictable. It hadn't exactly been easy for Wilson since the divorce. And it hasn't exactly been easy for me since he'd moved out. I was supposed to be glad he'd moved on. Bumming in your friend's apartment, sleeping on a crummy couch for an unsubstantiated amount of time is called being in a rut by most standards.

But I still miss him.

He followed close at my heels outside to the parking lot. I stopped, "Where are you going?"

"Where am I going? Where are you going?"

"To your car?"

"I . . . don't have it today," he said grudgingly, eyes averted.

"Why not?"

"I borrowed it," he answered, "To my ex-wife,"

"Alright, so we take my bike,"

I turned back toward the handicap spaces, shaking my head, "Why does she have your car?"

"It's—"

"Complicated?" I offered.

He sighed, "It's . . . never-ending," he said.

I reached the bike, tossing my cane into my other hand to secure it on the side.

"That's an understatement," I said, trying not to look at the sad look on his face, I knew it was there. It was always there when he talked about her.

I'd been so convinced he'd been the one cheating. I just had to feel like a jerk after finding out it was her all along, that, and be the consoling friend. She was the one that hurt him. Cheating on him not only made her a bitch but an idiot too. But then maybe he was an idiot for marrying her.

I got on my bike, grimacing as I got my leg in the right position, pain flashing red in front of my eyes, "You'll like this place," I twisted around and grabbed the helmet, holding it out to him. He was lingering on the blacktop, running a hand over the back of his neck, "Problem?" I asked, helmet weighing in my hand.

"No," he said quickly, taking the helmet. He put his right hand on my shoulder, swinging his leg over with undoubtedly more grace than I had. After putting on the helmet, though I'm sure he'd wanted me to wear it, he put both hands on my sides, "Let's just go,"

"Don't fall off," I told him harshly, racing the motor, lifting my left leg off the ground and took off across the parking lot.

I'd never established if he didn't like the bike because it had been his money spent to buy it or if he just didn't like the bike itself. Pointless argument anyway; who doesn't like motorcycles? I had expected to drive in his car but now this was the only choice.

And I might be a cripple but I'm not blind. It's one thing for Cameron to be on the back of my bike, but Wilson is a whole other thing. But we were also just talking about jumping out of a window for Christ's sake, this shouldn't be that unbelievable. Besides, he shouldn't mind that much. We've sat on the same couch, pretty close to each other, nearly touching, and that's virtually the same as riding on a motorcycle. Right, that makes sense.

I pushed the bike just enough to prove my point. Maybe to prove I could drive it. Not that Wilson thought I couldn't. Nonetheless, his hands tightened on my sides. Endorphins released into the brain during times of stress or danger, let's say, like when you're traveling at high speeds on a motorcycle, create feelings of excitement, they make you feel good. If Wilson's brain was working right he'd probably be feeling them right about now. I hoped he was. Our brains can be depressed or they can be happy, it's just a matter of chemicals.

Without the helmet the wind blew cold and unhindered against my skin, through my hair, filling my lungs to the brim with each breath. Normally my mind would be for the most part occupied with whatever case I was working on, but seeing as the case was a total snooze I found myself instead thinking about the fact that Wilson had never been on my bike. As I said, Cameron had been. I don't think she liked it very much.

On the road, with the cars zooming all around us, Wilson's hands inched almost all the way around my waist. He was warm against my back. Distracting. Each time I breathed I could feel his arms around me. His hands were on my stomach. To pass an extremely slow vehicle I zipped between two cars, not nearly as dangerous as some of the other stuff I've done but enough for Wilson to crush my ribs.

Ride's over. We were there. I slowed and pulled to a curb.

"We're here," I said over my shoulder, cutting the bike's motor and putting my feet down.

"Here?" Wilson repeated, getting off, taking off the helmet, "House, what is this?"

I retrieved my cane, leg throbbing, "What does it look like?"

"A strip club," he answered exasperated.

I squinted and turned to look at the array of neon signs, the lack of windows, the overwhelming feeling that it was less a building and more of a hole to crawl into, "I think you're right,"

Looking around with wide eyes he took two steps closer to me, "Why did you bring me to a strip club?" his voice was hushed and panicked as he leaned towards me, two brutish looking guys passing by on their way inside, a faint trace of smoke, urine and a dull beat of music emanated from the opened door.

"I thought you'd like it," I said.

He looked speechless, mouth hanging open. He shook his head, neon lights showing in his eyes as he looked to the side.

"You said dinner," I said, putting a hand on my bike to steady myself. He looked almost scared, "And you said I could pick the place. They've got great nachos,"

He nodded, "Right, and what? Do they come with a lap dance?"

"Depends on how good of one you want,"

"House . . ." he said, backing up a few steps, running a hand through his hair.

"What?"

"I don't want to go to strip club!" he stopped, running a hand over his mouth, looking nervously toward the door, trying not to yell, "How could you think this was a good idea?"

I paused, watching him. Obviously I was wrong. The bike threatened to sway under my hand. I closed my eyes, hand running down my thigh which was throbbing dully, "I was trying to be nice,"

He looked up at me from where he'd been staring at the asphalt. The hurt look on his face, and what looked like shock, made me look away.

"Fine," I sighed, "We can go,"

I got back on my bike, made more difficult now with the increased pain in my leg. I wanted pills. But driving and Vicodin don't mix. Anyways, if I took them and crashed I'd hurt Wilson. Think of all the cancer patients he'd never be to give teddy-bears to.

Wilson said nothing. He just wanted out of here. He got on the back, holding his hands lightly on my sides. I paused, wondering if I should say something before the sound of the bike drowned out all other sounds. But I couldn't think of anything. That's how good I am. I can find a snide remark for any situation, for anyone, but when it comes to just saying something, something comforting, I can't.

I drove to the hotel he was staying at, stopping in front, cutting the motor. I got off after him but didn't grab my cane. Just used the bike. I brought my eyes hesitantly to his.

The sudden silence seemed almost overwhelming. A gathering wind was blowing through the darkened, nearly empty hotel parking lot played with Wilson's hair. His collar was askew from the ride.

"I didn't . . ." I cleared my throat, "I didn't mean to . . ."

He nodded slightly, "But you did," he said calmly, then looked up, "Do you ever think about what you're doing . . . or do you just do it?"

"Is this the part where I lie and say, yes of course I do?"

Wilson sighed and shook his head, anger straining his voice, "I don't know why I actually fool myself into thinking I can have a real conversation with you," he stepped onto the curb, "I appreciate the gesture but I'm not interested," he turned and started toward his door.

I couldn't let him leave like this. Damnit. Before I could think about it, proving Wilson right in my total lack of thinking at times, I caught his arm in my hand, nearly falling over in the process. He braced his arm against my weight, shaking his head, "House, just let me go,"

Pain. The leg. Idiot. I held onto his arm, waiting for it to subside, " _Why_ are you so upset?"

"You're the diagnostician, you figure it out,"

"Because you . . . don't like strip clubs?"

"I don't," he said defensively, " _Not_ everyone does,"

"But you're mad at _me._ I didn't make you not like strippers,"

"I'm not doing this now," he said, "Now get your hand off of me or I'll get it off myself,"

I didn't move my hand. "I actually want to talk for once and you say ' _not_ now'" I exclaimed in irritation, hating that he was running away when he was supposed to be the brave one, "That is, unless you count the fact that I'd really _really_ like to get into my pocket and take a few Vicodin but have a feeling that if I let you go you'd just run . . . not to mention I haven't eaten anything all day, and just missed dinner, which I can thank _you_ for."

"Yet more evidence toward that fact that all you think about is yourself. Do you ever actually think about me? How I'm feeling about something? Does that even, for a moment, come into the equation?" he sighed, eyes closing for a moment, "Sometimes I feel so, so close to you, and other times you feel so far away."

This was really bothering him. I hadn't noticed because I'm selfish. And when it comes to putting on a face, Wilson is a champion. The amazing thing about Wilson is how incredible he is at deception. Maybe he had learned something from me after all. At that thought I felt an unexpected queasiness in my stomach. I didn't want Wilson to be anything like me. I swallowed, biting at my lower lip then taking a breath, "I'm not . . . totally detached."

He looked totally unconvinced, even a little annoyed. I met his eyes, finding it somehow easier than talking at the moment. If I could somehow convey what I wanted to say that way, it'd save time and the awful task of finding words for what I felt. It all felt more urgent now, standing outside his hotel on a Tuesday night, I don't know why, like time was running out.

Wilson looked back at me, unsteadily at first, becoming almost comfortable after a few moments. Fear. He was afraid. I looked deeper. One of the first things you learn as a doctor is that you don't always see what's right in front of you. It can be right there and you'd miss it because you weren't looking close enough, because you took something for granted, or negated the possibly altogether. I'm not a good friend. I never said I was. But I still paid attention to him. Depended on him. So why was I surprised that when I looked into Wilson's eyes I saw affection?

I licked my licks, lowering my eyes, throat tight, finding it hard to concentrate, "I didn't know you felt that way. Sure, I maybe wasn't being the most observant," I looked back up, "Maybe a little distracted," I narrowed my eyes, "But I'm not a mind reader."

"I know, I know," he said, "I just . . . really feel like I need a friend right now."

"I'm here," I explained, "And?"

"And then you take me to a strip club?" he almost laughed, paused, "I thought I could depend on you. I Thought you would be there," he took a long breath," he sighed, "Maybe you don't, maybe I'm just . . . "

His eyes turned up to the sky and shook his head. He looked like he was close to tears.

I raised my hand to his other arm, feeling him brace himself to handle the shift in my movements without my cane. I don't know what to say. I feel like my mouth is stitched shut. I don't know what else he wants. I'm out of options. After all that's happened, after all the times I'd fallen short, been selfish or just not been there at all, maybe I was going to lose Wilson. And maybe I'd just come to realize how terrible that would be. Fact was I couldn't speak, not sincerely, not warmly, not like he needed me to. And in a very cold world, where nothing really mattered, he's the one source of warmth I have.

"I . . . don't know how to help you," I said finally, feeling a shadow of fear darken my thoughts. He was standing close enough that when the night breeze ran past it my nostrils flared at his familiar smell.

"Yeh," he said, taking an unsteady breath. The cold had reddened the end of his nose, making him sniff as a few strands of dark hair blew across his brow, "House . . ." he started, eyes barely meeting mine, flickering from the ground to me, "I . . ."

As the words left his lips I closed the distance between us. I shifted my weight to my good leg, heart pounding in my ears, breath short, extending my unsteady, almost clumsy hand to touch his face. Wilson didn't move as I settled my fingers gently on his jaw-line. I licked my lips, his skin pleasantly warm against my hand. I could feel his pulse throbbing at his neck.

I was waiting for him to react. Wilson looked down, his right hand rising slowly up my arm, exhaling slowly as one of his hands came to my chest. For a second I wasn't sure if he would push me away. His fingers worked at the folds in my coat, gripping it tightly. This was nothing. So far just touching. No harm in that. Nothing. It's nothing.

Wilson always seemed so untouchable. He's just as smart as I am, enough to make it interesting but not as rivals. At the hospital, in everyday life he's warm and caring in every way I'm not. It's not like woman don't notice him. They do. And I notice when they notice. When they say he has a nice smile I agree that he does. But I noticed it first. I could watch him, for whatever period of time, and call it professional, like, boy, Wilson's got a nice ass, how interesting. These are usually classified as happy feelings.

My reaction to these feelings? Push him away and see if it works. Say terrible things and see if he flinches. And when he doesn't it means something. Though I'm not sure what that _something_ is. Or was. I can't mess with this. This can't change. I need Wilson.

But here, now, damn it, it's different. He's real. He's warm. And all I could think about lately was losing him. And the worst part is I would let it happen. I'd realize one day he was gone and I'd done nothing to keep him here. Like he is now. He's here.

I slowly leaned closer to him, eyes on his, waiting for him to stop me. Come on Wilson, stop me. I moved closer, enough to smell him when I inhaled. My eyes fell shut as I breathed. I opened them for a moment, looking down to his lips then back to his eyes. He did nothing. Still closer. Our lips were mere inches apart, his breath hot over my mouth.

My eyes slowly fell shut as I brushed my lips gently against his, feeling his lips move slightly under mine before I pulled back. I felt his hand move behind my head, through my hair that I wished I'd washed, and pull my lips back to his.

He kissed me. I let him. When I felt his tongue push past my teeth I let him. When a sudden flare of arousal coursed through me I kissed back. I slid my tongue deeper into his mouth, revelling in the taste. God it tasted good. The warm wetness of his tongue made me moan. My legs were starting to shake, making it hard to stand, I let both my hands fall to his hips and I dragged him toward me. Wilson kissed more forcefully, the wet smack of our lips seemed overly loud in the quiet parking lot, and I heard a groan resonate from the back of his throat as the undeniable hardness of my erection strained against the inside of my jeans, causing me to desperately press into him as his hips rose into mine.

Too much.

Too fast.

I gasped, jerking away abruptly, taking a panicked step backward, my bad leg buckling under me.

"Damnit," Wilson swore, grabbing for my arm to catch me.

He was trying to catch his breath. Not doing too well. I was doing much the same. Standing, at least at this point, is the most important, just keep standing. He stood and held onto one of my arms as I gritted my teeth against the pain, feeling like an idiot for almost falling over, "I'm so sorry," he said, one hand went to his forehead, "I can't believe I—oh god—"

"Wilson," I snapped, stopping him, looking anxiously down each side of the street. I bit at my lip, trying to think, but stopped, panicked, tasting Wilson over my lips, not brave enough to look at him, my heart beat wildly in my chest, resonating in my groin.

"Sorry about dinner," I said, taking my arm back, limping down from the curb, "I have to get home, my parents worry,"

I got back to my apartment in record time, breaking my previous 9.2 minute record. My leg barely bent going up my stairs, pain enough now to make my eyes water, clenching my jaw so hard I thought my teeth would break. Never had turning a key and opening a door been so difficult. Or taken so long—seconds wasted.

My helmet crashed to the floor, great for my piercing headache. I reached into my jeans pocket, the top of the pill bottle clattering to the floor, popping two in my mouth, letting them sit on my tongue just long enough for the bitter taste to wash over my tastebuds, then swallowed.

These pills aren't fast enough. I need to stop feeling. I ditched my coat, not bothering to turn on any lights, and started pacing, forcing air into my chest. Waiting. Waiting for the god damn pills to take effect.

Anger. Anger at what? Angry at not stopping myself when I should have? Anger at how much I hadn't wanted to leave him? Anger at imagining in one gasping, over-stimulated moment what would have happened if he'd asked me into his hotel room? Anger at being angry? Angry at myself for running away like that?

Not fast enough. It's been too long. I can't even tell I took them. I need more than pills. It hurt. My leg's hurting, I don't have a choice. I just want it to stop, damn it, for once leave me alone.

Morphine. I had a stash. For emergencies. Like now, now is an emergency.

I resisted, running a shaking hand through my hair, trying to get my head to stop pounding. It was on top of the bookshelf. It was practically screaming at me. I'm shaking too much. Doesn't take a doctor to know why. Tremors ran over my shoulders. Damnit. Take the drugs. Take them. Nothing else helps, you know that. Just take them. They're good, they help, take them. You'll take them in the end, you always do.

I stopped pacing, eyes squeezed shut, still not able to breathe. I can't. I can't do this. My eyes open and focus on my bookshelf. Next thing I know things are crashing down and I'm sitting on my couch, beat up tin box thrown open next to me. God I need this. I need it. Why am I so slow? My own shaking hands make the needle a virtual toy in my hand, I can't keep it straight. Luckily my veins are visible, risen under my skin. Any vein. Doesn't matter.

The needle plunged in my arm, my eyes close as I push the syringe down. Take the needle out, let it fall to the floor. Fall back on the couch with a sigh, mouth open, taking deep breathes. Oxygenating the blood, process the blood faster, feel it faster. My eyes fluttered open as I stopped shaking.

Time passed. The phone rang. Sounded a thousand miles away, somewhere lost in the fog.

Answering machine will get it.

"House?" Wilson. I knew he'd call. I know him. Knew him. Thought I knew him. I wanted to tell him it was okay. Nothing hurts anymore, I'm fine.

"I know you're there . . . pick up," his voice continued through the small speakers on my phone. Sound of him sighing. "If you need me, my help or anything, call me, okay? I'll . . . just call back later to check on you,"

*click*

Waited. Heard nothing more. So high. I could barely feel my arms and legs.

I didn't want to talk to him anyway. I'd tell him sorry for being such an ass and running away like that. I'd tell him to leave me the hell alone for once. Tell him to stop freak out every time I take an aspirin. I'd tell him I don't want to be alone anymore. I'd tell him I'm not gay. I'd tell him I never use the word love. That I don't believe in love. That it's been years and he hasn't said so much as a word. Tell him he's an idiot for getting into this. Tell him that he doesn't want to be close to me. Tell him I'm nothing but a washed out junkie, I don't even think I can love.

An hour later the answering machine picked up another message but I feel asleep before I could listen, only vaguely aware of what was going on, not sure it wasn't all a dream.


	2. Chapter 2

"House!"

I froze, shoes squeaking to a halt against the smooth hospital floor, "This is a tough one, hold on let me guess," I covered my eyes with one hand, "Shrill voice, loud heels, no lab coat thus above any common lackey . . ." Her shoe tapped methodically on the floor, "I'm going to guess . . ." I turned, greeted by her always cheerful, violent face, "Cuddy,"

"House, this is the last time,"

"Thanks, that's nice of you. I hate getting bitched at so early in the morning,"

"For one, it's 11:30, and two, I am getting so tired of saying the same damn thing to you every time you're late that there just might not be a next time, got it?"

"I have complete confidence in my team," I said in a sincere voice, "They've just grown up so fast," I put a hand over my heart.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, fluttering heavy eyelashes, looking back at me with maybe an ounce of recovered control, "Do your job. Be on time. I'm too busy, everyone else is too busy, to deal with you right now,"

She stormed off. I smiled.

I limped to the conference room, pushing open the door with my shoulder, "Okay, anyone keeping count?" I asked, entering the room, "I'm trying to see how many times I can be late before Cuddy gets really _really_ mad—she's got extraordinary patience,"

Chase, Cameron, and Foreman, all seated around the table, a modest scattering of half-eaten muffins strewn across the table, weren't looking at me, but rather behind me. Following suite I turned and saw Wilson standing at the board, a few barely recognizable words scrawled across the board.

"Wilson," I said, my centre of gravity swaying for a moment, "Is this a good day? Someone diagnosed with terminal cancer yet?"

"No," he responded over one shoulder, "Someone has unexplained seizures, the charts there on the table if you care to look at it,"

I groaned.

"And, as of a few hours ago," he continued without pause, "has begun showing signs of pulmonary hypertension, we started her on Prostacylin, only minimal improvement, her blood gas levels are still too low for comfort,"

"When did she come in?" I asked.

"Last night, early this morning,"

"And you're here because . . ."

"Because you're not," Wilson retorted, swinging the marker in his hand, "And besides, we haven't ruled out cancer entirely,"

"My alarm clock broke, or was stolen, either one, I would have gotten here,"

"Eventually,"

It became obvious all of a sudden that no one was staring at the board anymore. In fact, when I turned around every one of their bright young faces were fixed on Wilson and me.

I looked away from Wilson, impatient, reaching to grab the file from the table before turning to go into my office, "Well, don't let me interrupt,"

Another boring case. Hardly enough to get up for. A couple more hours sleep would have been great. Nice, peaceful, drugged sleep with no dreams to bother me. No dreams. Just peace. Instead I'm here, Wilson's here, we're all here.

Coffee sat on my desk. I cast a leery eye through the glass to Wilson who had returned to the board. Sitting down I pulled the top off the cup. Condensation from the steam dripped off the lid, leaving a ring where I'd set it on the file.

I leaned back in my chair and rested the coffee on my leg. The heat felt good. I'd opened my eyes this morning on the couch, alarm clock going off in the next room for God knows how long, and my leg had already been in pain, like it'd never stopped. I'd glanced briefly at the flashing red light of my answering machine on the way out the door, vaguely acknowledging there were five new messages, but instead of listening to them, not that I didn't know who they were from, I popped a pill and closed the door.

Everything inside of me was screaming to take another pill, the morphine last night had made it worse, I'm not an idiot. The urge pulled at me, it felt like my heart was slowly being ripped out. But it was still nice of him to get me coffee.

The coffee hit my tongue like battery acid. The bitter taste lingered even after I'd put it back down on my desk. I looked up at the sound of the other doors closing and saw Wilson on the other side of the glass. The sun shined through the half-slit blinds in my office, casting a golden hue over everything. It looked like he hadn't slept. Coming through the door he only met my eyes for a second, cleared his throat and walked slowly up to my desk.

"You look more than just tired, House," he said carefully, putting his hands on the back of the chair in front of my desk.

I looked down, eyes vaguely focused on the file in front of me, choosing to ignore the insinuation in his voice, "My leg hurt," I said, holding the cup of scalding coffee in my hand, watching steam rise off the dark liquid, "A lot,"

"I think . . . some of that is my fault," he said in a weary voice, sitting down across from me. God I hated this. Now he'd want to talk. I didn't want to talk.

"My leg hurts because it hurts," I repeated slowly, standing up restlessly, taking my coffee with me, "If you want to be blamed for something blame yourself for lying to your best friend,"

"What did I lie about?" he questioned, standing up as well, then when I looked unconvinced he continued, "About being—" he pointed to his chest.

"You weren't entirely honest,"

" _I_ wasn't being honest?"

"You ambushed me,"

"You kissed me, that's not an ambush,"

Paused. Recollect myself. "You tricked me,"

"How?!"

"You've been married three times,"

"I've been divorced three times,"

"Cuddy—"

"Is a friend, _just_ a friend,"

"The nurses—"

"Some people actually talk to people they work with,"

I stopped. The room grew quiet. "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked after a long enough pause for the heat of the cup to burn my fingers before I rearranged them.

"Why didn't you tell me? You weren't exactly fighting me off," he said angrily. I didn't stop staring at him. "Maybe you should stop yelling at me and take a look at yourself," his chest was heaving with each breath. He was right. "Whatever happened, is happening—this friendship means something to me . . . I don't want to risk losing you,"

"You're not losing me," I said slowly.

He was silent. Hands in the pockets of his lab coat, eyes taken aback, like they didn't want to be hopeful, not again. He cleared his throat, licked his lips, and looked away for a moment, "Half the time I don't know whether you hate me or like me,"

I frowned, confused.

"Sometimes people need proof, House . . . words aren't enough,"

The arm with the coffee in it lowered till I set the cup on my desk. My head hurt. My leg hurt. And I hadn't thought that Wilson wouldn't know how I feel. I don't know how I feel half the time, he shouldn't feel left out. But pain is pain. I have enough of it. I care about Wilson. Asking him if he cares about me has a possibility of two answers. One hurts more than the other.

I took a careful breath, finding it hard to speak, the words finally finding their way to my lips like from across a great distance, "You're all I care about," I'd said it. "And I didn't want you to move out,"

"So . . . you feel the same way?"

"I kissed you . . . remember?" He met my eyes and took a step forward because I couldn't. My left leg supported most of my weight as the cane brace my right, my hand tight around my cane as he stood in front of me.

"So where does that leave us?" he asked.

"In a room with glass walls,"

Suddenly over Wilson's shoulder I saw a very unwelcome sight, Cuddy, standing outside my door. Wilson saw my eyes redirect and looked over his shoulder. When he looked back at me a pleading, impatient look came over his face, eyes dilated, and I saw him suppress a sigh. He looked incredibly sexy. The door pushed open and I felt a flash of anger at Cuddy, worst timing in the history of woman with bad timing.

"Well, here's a sight," she said, half in the door, like her feet couldn't stay on the ground for more than a few moments, "Two doctors with so many other, _better_ , things to do than just standing around,"

Perfect. Well, at least things were consistent. Cuddy annoyed the hell out of me. Wilson fell back a step, trying to not look involved, as I picked up the file from my desk and limped forward a few steps.

"Yeah but I didn't stop for breakfast this morning like you did, big waste of time, considering the line at Jerry's Donuts in the morning you must have spent twenty minutes there and back,"

She looked startled. Deduction was easy when jelly donuts were involved. I could just see her trying to eat it neatly, but nope, a stain at either end of her mouth, vague granted, but there. Not to mention the purple spot on her collar, hastily wiped at with water and bathroom soap.

"Don't make me say the words," she warned, the door now being held open by her shoulder as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. She did this just to make my life hell. She enjoyed it. Wilson had a hand over his mouth. Smiling. Bastard.

"Mystery intrigues,"

"Clinic duty," She'd said it anyway. "And you" she said toward Wilson who looked up in surprise as she swept her hands out the door, "I'm breaking you boys up, back to work,"

She was out the door, loudly stamping down the hallway before I could glare at her properly. Clinic duty it was.

I went down to the clinic. Wilson and I parted ways. Somehow things were resolved. Somewhat. Kind of. Vaguely. For now. Of course the somewhat, kind of, vaguely, for now, kind of resolved situation is distracting. Suddenly it was all Wilson. All I could think about. Limping to the clinic, grabbing a chart, I was thinking about being with him again. It took me too long to figure that out. I was obsessive by nature. Things dominate my thoughts. Pills and Wilson. What a great combination. I vaguely wondered if he was just as distracted as I was. If he was thinking about me as much as I was thinking about him. It didn't really matter. It made me happy to think about him.

Until exam room two, of course.

"My foot hurts,"

I snapped my gloves on and sat down on the stool with a sigh, "Any idea why?"

The patient shrugged, foot hanging off the exam table with about as much expression as his face had, which overall looked as blank as the etched face on a jack of clubs.

"Could be the nail right here,"

"What?"

"There's a nail embedded in your foot,"

"No way!"

"Well, it does take an extraordinary amount of self-awareness to realize the excruciating pain in your foot might have something to so with the two inch piece of metal that most likely isn't supposed to be there,"

The jack of clubs look altered enough to look something like shock, "But it's a nail! It's been in my foot for how long? How could I not notice it?"

"I'd rather not contemplate the answer to that question, my life is so grey and hopeless as it is,"

The patent nodded, affirmative to me, then shook his head, negative to his foot, "So you can get it out, right?"

"The nail is wedged between the second and third metatarsal," I wheeled forward and grabbed his foot, ignoring his gasp of surprise as I inspected the bloodied area, at the centre of which was the nail in question, "It hasn't hit anything too important, otherwise you would've left a trail of blood from wherever it is you limped from—just need pliers,"

I wheeled over to the phone on the wall, snapping my gloves off, clearing my throat as I picked up the receiver, "Dr. Wilson is needed in exam room two, tell him to bring a pliers,"

"Wha—" the patient gawked, though still oddly oblivious to pain, "You're calling another doctor? I thought you said it would be easy!"

"Nothing's ever easy," I interposed sharply, glad it made him stop whining. In the pause, as the awful truth no doubt sunk into his shallow heart, I took out the bottle in my pocket and tossed back a pill.

The door opened a moment later, "House?" Wilson stepped halfway in, "Are you serious? Pliers?"

"Show'em kid," I said, tucking the bottle back in my pocket. The patient held his foot up.

"Oh, jeez, is that a—" Wilson's eyes locked onto the foot with a mix of horror and interest.

"It's not a toothpick. But I wanted another opinion, just to be sure,"

Wilson blinked. He stepped forward nonetheless, gently taking the boy's foot in his hands, "When did this happen?" he asked him.

"I have no clue,"

I rolled my eyes, clasping my hands between my knees, "What did you take?"

"Huh?"

"What drugs?"

"I didn't take anything!"

"The amount of healing in your foot is consistent with the third or fourth day after the initial injury and, seeing as it is Monday, you would've had a nice long weekend to bum around with little idea of where you were, let alone what nail you stepped on recently," I stood up, "And unless your intellectual or emotional capacity really is as hopelessly dense as a tree-stump, there's no way you wouldn't be in terrible pain right now. You took something then. You took something now,"

Wilson had his arms crossed in front of him, looking up at the ceiling.

"You're going to tell my parents," the patient moaned.

"We're bound by confidentiality laws," Wilson told him, "We can't tell your parents," the kid sighed in relief, "But," Wilson continued, "If you continue your reckless," his eyes met mine over the patient's shoulder, "careless behaviour, they most likely will find out," he paused, "You stepped on a nail and didn't notice for three days,"

Wilson accepted the look of grief on the kid's face, giving a moment for him to reflect, if it was even possible. It would have been more than I would have given him. Though it was still beyond me how he hadn't noticed, at all, when he'd stepped on the nail or anytime afterwards. And worse, it was the most interesting part to me.

Wilson put gloves on, taking a syringe out of the drawer, talking in his calm, talking-to-patients-and-lost-animals voice, "This isn't painkillers, it'll just numb your foot so I can take it out, like Novocain for your foot,"

The patient leaned back on his elbows, eyes closed, "I'm an idiot," he sighed, his unfocused eyes glassy with tears that he tried to hide as Wilson applied the anaesthetic.

"People can do dumb things and not be idiots," Wilson said calmingly. He was silent as he maneuverer the pliers around the head of the nail, careful even though the kid's foot was numb, "Ready?"

"Yeah,"

Wilson pulled it out, short and sweet, applying gauze as it started to bleed. The nail clanked dully as it hit the metal tray, "Feeling okay?" Wilson asked the kid, reaching for the tape.

"Think so," he said, looking down at his foot with a grimace, "You know, you're a lot nicer than he is," he jerked his chin in my direction.

"I know," Wilson said, hand smoothing over the bandage, eyes on me.

"Yeah, but I only cause emotional pain," I told the patient who was distracted enough by Wilson finishing his bandage that he might not have even been listening to me. My eyes were fixed on Wilson's hands, their careful, tender movements were almost mesmerizing, "Catch Dr. Wilson on a bad day, he's violent,"

"Yes, because I make it my business to beat up obsessive blue-eyed infectious disease specialists on a daily basis,"

"Oncologists fight dirty," I said, only slightly to the patient, "At war with tumours, at war with the world,"

"Just try and corner me,"

"Threats are great but I've got simple facts on my side; I'm taller than you,"

"Do I look scared?"

"Um . . . " I heard in the background, we both turned to the patient who was looking confused, "My foot . . ."

"Right," Wilson said, snapping out of it suddenly, embarrassed, "Sorry, uh, you'll need a tetanus shot. Stop by the nurse's station on the way out and they'll get you one,"

The kid nodded, one eye narrowed as he peered at us under a raised eyebrow, "Thanks,"

"No problem," Wilson said, smiling politely at the patient, then frowned like he was missing someone. "Can you walk?" he asked the kid as he slid off the table.

"I got this far," Wilson took his elbow nonetheless, "I'm cool," the kid said as way of dismissal.

The patient left. Door closed. Wilson paused, his mouth fell open, "I . . . just took a nail out of someone's foot and it wasn't even my patient; something's wrong with this picture,"

"Got you down here didn't it?"

"Don't worry, I'm only mildly grossed out," he said, taking his gloved off and tossing them. He turned back to me, putting his hands on his hips with a deep breath, "So I'm guessing that wasn't the only reason you called me down here?"

"Not quite," I said, taking a step forward, hanging onto the last syllable, "But it was exciting wasn't it? I liked the part where it gushed blood the best; so entertaining,"

"I can't believe this," he sighed, turning to the sink to wash his hands, pushing the sleeves of his lab coat up roughly, "I have piles of work to do but instead of doing them I'm down here saving irresponsible kids from tetanus and hanging out in a small exam room with you," he scrubbed vigorously at his hands, not facing me, "Who either has it in for me or actually really likes me, oddly enough either one feels extraordinarily alike, all the while hiding from Cuddy who thinks _I'm_ the good one that always does what he's told even though for the last twenty four hours all I can think about is kissing you again—oh, no, I don't have issues, I'm just complicated," he dried his hands hastily.

"You're talking really fast," I pointed out to him.

"Believe me, I'm trying to slow down but it's not working,"

"Try breathing,"

"I'm breathing,"

"Good, now look at me,"

"House . . ." his eyes wandered, nervous energy rolling off of him. I couldn't stand it anymore. Either he would rush out of here or I would limp out of here to escape a serious turn in the conversation. Either one I didn't want to happen.

Dropping my cane against the wall I decisively clasped both my hands on either side of his face. His deep brown eyes jerked to mine, blinking anxiously. He shouldn't have kissed me back the first time. That made this okay. Made this desirable. Made this undeniable. He shouldn't have come down here. I wanted him down here. No one was watching. We were alone. I wasn't in control, not any more than he was. He was denying it, I was denying it. I'm tired of denying it.

Pulling him roughly toward me I caught his lips in mine, feeling both of his arms wrap around me. The only sound now was the wet smack of our lips, the sucking, breathless sound of kissing trapped in a small room. Who knew his energy could be diverted this way? I slid my hands down his shoulders, fingers spread, dragging them down the white cloth of his lab coat, pulling him against me. Unfamiliar curves, lack of curves, filled my senses. Muscled back, solid waist, smaller hips. My hands under his lab coat, searching for skin. Tried to drag his shirt from his pants. Wilson broke the kiss and began trailing kisses down my neck. Nuzzling, sucking, biting my skin, his hands spread across my chest as his rapid breath filled my ears.

I heard several gasps escape my lips. God it felt good, so good, Wilson—I moaned but bit it back. My arousal throbbed through me, sudden and intense. This was for last night. For me running away. Picking up where we left off. I didn't know what to do with my hands but it didn't matter because in the next second my back hit the blinds. Almost hurt. The noise startled Wilson, he looked up, face flushed, "You okay?" I nodded. His hands seemed to have unconsciously started to move down my waist, making me pause, casting my eyes upward to the blank ceiling, trying to swallow past an almost suffocating lump in my throat. His hands touched the skin of my stomach and I shivered. His fingers started working at my belt. My eyes closed.

Wilson kissing me was one thing. Kissing was one thing. This. Where this was going. This was different. Not just kissing. Wilson undoing my pants. His hands undoing the button of my jeans, pulling down the fly. But I didn't stop him. I felt his hand slide under the hem of my boxers and I wasn't the least bit prepared for it. Gasped, almost jumped as his hand wrapped around my hard cock. One of my hands shot to his in panic.

"House . . ." I heard him say in a throaty voice, "I—"

"Yes," I affirmed even though he hadn't asked it. His hand, his fingers, lost track of what they were doing, I could barely even breath. My head fell back against the blinds as Wilson went to his knees in front of me. Then his tongue was moving hot and wet over, around, and up my exposed cock. My hands drew into fists, I almost slammed them against the glass but stopped myself by grabbing his hair as I felt myself slip into his mouth. So hot, pulsing, and wet. I could feel the hum of his moans all the way up my spine. I want this fast, want it slow. I want it to last, I want to feel good, feel good without drugs, for as long as I can.

"Oh . . . Wilson, oh god . . . " I heard myself plead, not believing it was me. My voice was low, begging, breathless. My hips rose against him, thrusting myself into his mouth as he moved, couldn't help it, hands tangled in his hair. His hands were gripping my hips so hard I knew they'd leave bruises. His tongue circled and flicked and I started to shake. Heart pounded like thunder in my ears.

No. Not thunder. My eyes shot open. Knocking.

"Dr. House?" just outside the door.

Cameron.

We jerked apart from each other, Wilson shot to his feet as the door started to open, "There's a—" she started to say as Wilson fell away from me, his hands leaving me a fraction of a moment before her eyes focused on us.

Cameron was standing frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. She'd gone as pale as a ghost. And the door was wide open. Wide open to the clinic, to everyone.

"Either close the door or get out!" I shouted at her, franticly buckling my belt with horribly shaking hands. She chose the latter, so fast the door slammed shut.

"Oh my God," Wilson was saying, panicked breathes catching in his throat, "Oh God," he brought both hands to his head, sliding one over his mouth which looked wet and swollen.

I closed my eyes, still up against the blinds, my bad leg bent and unsupportive beneath me, "Christ . . ." What had just happened?

"You have to talk to her," Wilson said suddenly.

"What?" I responded, pushing myself from the glass, "Why me?" I needed my cane. Where the fuck was my cane? It was lying in the middle of the floor. Knocked over. Damn it.

"Because," he said with emphasis, dropping his hands with an exasperated breath, "Because you know her better, because I'm totally freaking out right now,"

My eyes dropped to the floor. I'm not talking to her. No way. I focused on my cane lying on the floor. No way.

"House . . ." Wilson said. "If one of us doesn't, if you don't, she might talk to Cuddy before we have a chance to explain—"

"To explain what exactly?" I almost shouted, "There's no way to explain it except that we were—"

"We weren't being stupid, just—" he stopped, trying to be calm, "Just careless, but not everyone will see it that way, you need to talk to Cameron,"

I chanced looking up at him. He bent and got my cane from the floor, handing it to me. His shirt tails were hanging out of his pants. His hair was a mess. Luckily my shirt was always un-tucked and my hair was always a mess.

"I'll talk to her . . . " I said after a moment, taking the cane from him, out hands brushing against each other, "You . . . better get back to work,"

We parted, again, and I was left the awful task first of finding her then talking to her. I went to the lab. She would have gone back to work, trying to regain a sense of normalcy in her panic.

She saw me coming. Benefit of glass walls. When she saw me her eyes went quickly back to the microscope. I opened the door and walked in. More or less. My leg had started hurting again. A lot.

She didn't turn around.

"You can't tell Cuddy," I said to her. It was the first thing to come to my mind, the most important thing for now.

"Why would I tell Cuddy?" she asked, leaning back from the microscope and taking up a pen to scrawl a line of numbers across the file page.

"Sounds like something you'd do," I answered.

She spun around in her chair, "Something I would do?! What about you? What the hell was that?!" She was near tears.

"It's nothing,"

"The hell it is," she slammed the file closed, not looking at me, "I feel like I'm going to be sick,"

"You might want to step out of the lab,"

"How can you be so calm?!"

"I'm not!" I yelled suddenly, regretting it as soon as the words left my mouth.

Her face hardened, she set her tear filled eyes and took a moment before saying, "So this is the big secret?"

"What?"

"That you're," she lowered her voice, passing a hand over her nose, voice a mixture of shock and pain, "That you're _gay_? That's it? That's what you've been hiding?"

Luckily I hadn't counted on her not getting emotional. The torch she may or may not have held for me had been dramatically dashed very suddenly in one stupid moment. Maybe she thought we still had a chance. Wilson was wrong. We were being stupid. I didn't want her to have to find out that way. Not good for her. Not good for me. Humiliating for me. Because it was Wilson. Because it was a guy. Because I'm not supposed to do things like that.

"I'm not gay," I said darkly.

"There must be some other explanation then," she said sarcastically. I couldn't say anything. She wanted me to say it? I couldn't even think it. Saying things aloud made them true. I'm not falling into _that_ trap. She shook her head, "Wow, you really are pathetic. You show no love, for anything or anyone, and you finally have it, with someone that really cares about you, and you're too much of a coward to admit it,"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement and my eyes dropped to the polished floor as Chase pushed through the door. Cornered.

"Admit what?" he asked curiously. I underestimated his hearing apparently. I bit my lip and locked my eyes with Cameron. _Don't_ , I thought.

Her gaze never faltered, "He's seeing someone,"

Chase's eyebrows rose, "Seeing someone?" he repeated, looking from Cameron to me with a smile tumbling across his lips, "Someone only _he_ can see . . ."

" _Dating someone,_ seeing someone."

"You're joking," he laughed. I rolled my eyes, gritting my teeth. I wanted to defend myself but it'd only be incriminating. When Cameron said nothing to deny it he scoffed, "You're not joking. . . well, alright . . . congratulations, I guess,"

Cameron leaned one hand on the tabletop, assuming a casual pose despite the tears she had been close to crying less than a minute ago. She even smiled. Not at me. At Chase. "What are you doing Friday night?"

"Friday?" he squeaked, "Uh, nothing, why?"

"Dr. House invited us on a double date,"

"You and I . . ." Chase said slowly, holding a hand to his chest in affirmation, "And House and . . ."

"His date,"

I knew Chase was an idiot but apparently idiot is the predecessor to imbecile. How could he fall for this?

"Well, I . . .alright," his eye lit up, a piece of blonde hair falling across his brow as he smiled at Cameron, "I'd love to,"

"Great," Cameron said.

"Oh, and uh, you should know that the patient blood gas levels are almost back to normal,"

Chase left, busy apparently. Cameron got up off her stool, leaving too. I caught her arm as she passed,

"I'm not going on this date,"

"Actually you are,"

"No, I'm not,"

"If you don't go," she jerked her arm loose from mine, fixing me with her wide, long-lashed eyes, "I'll tell Cuddy what I saw,"

"This is a childish game," I told her, "If you're doing this just to torture me you're doing it for the wrong reason—it's that or blind, unreasoning jealousy. Equally wrong of course would be trying to help a lost cause but resentment is so much stronger than compassion isn't it?"

"If you do this that's it, it's over, I'll leave you and him alone,"

"But your date? Somehow I don't picture golden-boy keeping his mouth shut,"

"He won't tell,"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I don't think you're a lost cause,"

"You have yourself convinced—"

"And Wilson doesn't either,"

She had struck a cord. A cord she knew now to be there. I'd had enough. I'd talked to her. I turned and started to limp out of the lab.

"Seven on Friday!" Cameron called behind me.

"I'm not showing!" I shouted over my shoulder.

"Yes you are!"

How would I tell Wilson?


	3. Chapter 3

Pager. When all else that you're not willing to try fails it's the best and only solution.

Now my leg is in excruciating pain. The pain charts doctors sometimes use, the visual version of "on a scale of 1-10", with little smiley faces in various degrees of agony couldn't even come close. Cameron could have kicked me square in the leg and saved time. Of course any amount of pain would seem unbearable in comparison to the total lack of pain I'd been in less than ten minutes ago. It was amazing how easy it'd been to forget the pain in my leg while Wilson was giving me a blowjob.

I went back to my office, ignoring the overwhelming urge to hide away, nonetheless finding the closed, darkened room comforting. Crawling back to where it was safe wasn't going to help me now besides it being cowardly. I preferred pathetic; cowardly implied weakness.

I unclipped my pager as I sat down, grimacing as I straightened my right leg under my desk, one hand clenching my thigh. I sent Wilson a message he wasn't likely to ignore. Pushed send. Threw the pager on my desk with a clatter. Fell back in my seat, eyes squeezed shut in pain. But it was quiet and dark behind my eyelids. I kept them closed, taking several shuddering breathes. A minute passed. He'll be here soon.

Cameron was probably—no, definitely doing this, setting up this date, to "help me" in some weird twisted way. Normal, social people go on dates. She has an overly simple mind with happy little gears and hopeful little pulleys that tick away but have very little output. Makes this easy, simple, for her. If it was any clearer than it was before it's obvious she must not live in the same world I do. My gears are all broken.

The door burst open, my eyes opened, and Wilson's face went from an expression of extreme relief to intense anger in the time it took me to focus my eyes.

"This was funny," he said, pager held up at eye level, knuckles white.

I pressed my lips together in a thoughtful expression, "Someone once told me I have a dark sense of humour," I said in a casual way, sitting up, "Of course they were on their deathbed, dying people are always so depressing," I made a mock impatient sigh, "don't find humour in anything."

"Emergency," Wilson read from the pager, making my eyes roll impatiently to the ceiling, "Dr. House is in critical condition," the pager fell to his side, eyes boring into me, he'd only read part of it, "I was upstairs, I came running down here only to find Brenda at the desk filing her nails."

I bit my lip, my thoughts darkening, "This _is_ an emergency."

"What is it?" Wilson asked, calming himself by running a hand through his hair, voice lower, "Something Cameron said?"

"It's so hard to pick just one thing."

"If you _had_ to."

I had trouble meeting his eyes. I wanted to. But couldn't. My eyes were somewhere to the side of my desk as I tried to take a few deep breathes, Wilson's tension almost tactical, "She . . . said she wouldn't tell Cuddy if I, if we, went on a date with her and Chase," I looked up at him.

His mouth dropped open; he almost fell back a step like someone had pushed him, then shook his head, eyes closed, "A date?"

"Yeah."

"A double date?"

"Yeah."

"With her and Chase?"

"Let's try repeating it again, maybe this time it won't be true."

Wilson exhaled, looking like he needed to sit down, hair sticking up in an odd way from his hand running through it, "She can't do this," he said in a quiet, angry voice.

"I can't think of any way out of it," I said quietly, "We don't have a choice," my hand was back on my thigh, which was throbbing about as much as my head was at the moment, "She'll tell Cuddy otherwise . . . and _that_ she can do," my fingers curled into the folds of my jeans and I forced away the screaming in my head to take pills. It's getting worse. Can't ignore it anymore. I looked up at him, "Sit down, you look like you're going to pass out."

His eyes flickered to mine and he moved to sit down. He clasped in the chair, arms falling limp in his lap, "When?"

"Friday."

"Would this . . ." he set his mouth, eyes wandering sideways, " . . . be a pretend date for us or a real date?"

"I'm just doing it to save my ass," I looked from my desk, frowned, not sure why he looked troubled. I shrugged, biting the inside of my cheek, "Our asses."

"Right," he agreed, clearing his throat, "In the end . . . bargaining with Cameron would be easier than bargaining with Cuddy."

"Yeah," I nodded, lacing my fingers together in front of me, "So . . . I'll find out more about it and let you know. We've got forty-eight hours, that should be enough time to come up with some kind of game plan."

When I looked at him again his eyes were lowered, an elbow propped up on the arm of the chair, knuckles covering his mouth. He sniffed, turning his brown eyes upward like he hadn't meant to waste the last few seconds. The brightness from the hall shined off his eyes briefly, the florescent light giving away what might have been tears if he hadn't blinked several times rapidly. "I'll just go then," he got up and started out the door.

"Wilson," I called. As if I would actually know what to say. As if I could acknowledge what had happened not fifteen minutes ago, that it had felt incredible and unexpected and I had no idea what it meant beyond we'd crossed a very significant line, very quickly.

"Yeah?" he turned, hands sliding into his pockets.

Two or three people passed by in the hall, walking in the sure confident way that hospital employees seem to always have even when they can't see past whatever file they have their nose buried in, their shadows passing briefly through the blinds. I'd have to open the blinds before the kids came back to tell me the case was solved, patient whoever's been discharged.

"Nothing," I said finally, roughly.

He left, door closing quietly behind him.

I went back to clinic duty for the rest of the afternoon. It all seemed fine. There was no evidence, no sign, no indication that anything other than the usual painfully stupid patients and their usual disturbingly not-awful problems had ever been going on.

Except for the fact that every chart I signed had the date appropriately and accurately marked on top, Wednesday the twelve, and every time I saw it was a reminder that not only was today Wednesday but tomorrow was Thursday and the tomorrow after it would be Friday no matter what I did. It was a ticking clock and the second hands were files. It was driving me crazy. And going back into the exam room where Wilson and I had been was a particular treat.

So I had to take pills. One was fine. Two just happened. I took four and they hit my stomach like lead. Waited a minute. Closed my eyes. No different. No different than all the other times. Except now it was more at once than the same over an extended period of time. Virtually the same thing. I can handle it. And lucky for me, the doubts always evaporate after the Vicodin starts to take effect.

I know my heart rate is high, I can feel it. I think maybe its fear. Maybe physical strain. Maybe all the drug abuse. If it's fear then I'll calm down when the pills calm me down. And if it's anything else I'll stop feeling it then too. I'm comfortable shrugging off a rapidly emptying pill bottle when serious issues and subsequent serious pain is involved. Like now. It's not the problem. The date's the problem.

It's a problem because it, whatever the hell it is, makes the whole denial thing difficult, that and by a widely accepted rule when you go on a date with someone it means you're romantically involved. So that would mean I like Wilson. And that would mean, by definition, that I'm not straight. All those late night lying awake, too tense to sleep, just staring miserably at my ceiling until I can't take it anymore and finally jerk off, they're not so much a mystery anymore. Not when the images going through my head, ones I choose to forget immediately afterwards, are of my best friend. What I feel for him is real, god, what if it's more than that, what if it's . . .

"And then it started to look green."

Suddenly I realized someone was talking to me.

I was in the clinic. Am in the clinic.

The words I'd just heard un-jumbled themselves in my mind, falling together in a wobbly, haphazard line that was more or less comprehensible to me as long as I didn't have to know what they meant.

Green then and it started look to.

No, that's not right. My eyes focused on the large immobile object in front of me. I assumed it was the patient but it was too soon to tell.

"Are you listening to me?" the object's voice echoed distantly off the walls of my mind.

"No, not really," I answered, idly wondering where green fit into all this.

Blinked my eyes, really trying to pay attention. Large rimmed glasses. Suspenders. Maybe tweed, not sure. He had no pants on. Struck me as odd that he'd be wearing tweed with no pants.

"Is this what they pay doctors for now?" he insisted, the buckles on his suspenders were clinking, making noise, he was pulling his pants up. I felt something like gratitude. "To sit around with your degrees and stethoscopes, not listening to people?"

Wow. He seemed like an asshole.

I realized too late I'd said that last part, the asshole part at least, out loud. Then I laughed. Didn't know if I was saying things or thinking them.

"Excuse me?" he retorted.

"You think this is bad," I heard myself say, "You should have seen what I was doing in here this morning,"

"Verbally assaulting a patient?"

"Think lower, less verbal, and consensual," my eyes wandered to the ceiling, "Who thought sex in an exam room could be so hot?" Speechlessness. There's a reaction I hadn't thought of, "Well," I sighed, "Better get on with this,"

"No! I'll go to another clinic," the man said, yelled maybe, snapping his suspenders back over his shoulders. Heavy steps toward the door. "I don't care if I'll have to pay, as least I'll get a real doctor," he was wheezing. Typically not a good sound. Especially when you're so large you can barely fit through the door and something somewhere is turning green. Should I stop him? Do I really enjoy his company that much? Should I suggest he sit back down, relax, been a long day? All those seemed more and more unlikely as he continued talking, "You look like you're insane. Or on drugs." He might have been yelling that too, "I'm talking to the administrator, I'm talking to whoever's criminal enough to sign your paychecks, you should be fired, or worse," He slammed the door on the way out.

Lucky number five. Fifth patient. I'm done. I went to the front desk. Threw the file on the nurses' desk, and that's when I saw Cuddy and Cameron together. Cuddy had her arms crossed. Cameron was speaking to her. Telling her something? I pushed myself from the desk. We had made a deal. I limped as fast I could to get to them. Not freaking out. I'm not freaking out. I don't freak out.

" . . . barely had time to—" Cameron stopped mid-sentence as I approached.

I took advantage of her silence, " . . . and then I found out how much it would cost and I had to tell her I just couldn't afford it—turns out hookers don't barter," I stopped, mirroring their shocked expressions with my own convincing surprised expression, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought this was sharing time—you go ahead Cameron."

"The conversation was between us, House," Cuddy explained slowly, like I needed it, "Us. Just the two of us," she pointed genially to herself then Cameron, "If you ever feel the need to interrupt on any of mine or Dr. Cameron's conversations in the future try and restrain yourself, count to ten, whatever," she turned back to Cameron, then half turned on a heel, tilting her head down the hall, "Was that a patient?"

"Patient?" feigned panic, "Where?!"

'That just came storming out of exam two . . . who's heading to my office," her eyes squinted.

I was trying to interpret the look on Cuddy's face. Serious? Angry? Besides the day old makeup that she apparently hadn't had the chance to touch up, exposing dark circles under her eyes and a less vibrant shade of cerulean blue eye-shadow, as well as several loose strands of hair she brushed distractingly out of the way every now and then, she didn't seem mad or sad or glad or any other rhyme. So I'd just thrown myself in the conversation for nothing.

"Is your conversation hospital related?" I pushed, "Personal? Should we start passing notes? The walls have ears you know," I shifted my eyes from side to side.

Cuddy sighed heavily, "Why do you do this? Are you incapable of leaving people, _me_ , alone?!"

"Short fuse," I winced, looking at Cameron, "Maybe I shouldn't have joined in,"

Cameron wasn't laughing. On closer inspection she wasn't smiling either. In fact when looking even closer she was frowning, glaring, at me. And what had I done?

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked. This made Cuddy even more angry. Cameron was supposed to be on her side. They were having t-shirts made. And bumper stickers. Team Anti-House 4 Ever.

"Of course he's alright, why wouldn't he be?" Cuddy retorted, rolling her eyes before fixing me with an almost crippling gaze. Crippling gaze . . . that's funny. Hurting hurt people is so mean.

"Yeah," I agreed with Cuddy, "Why wouldn't I be? I spent the whole day in the clinic."

"You've got it all figured out, this whole hospital and everyone in it, that makes you alright in my book, and in yours too since you honestly believe it."

"You should have heard the end of my story."

"No thanks," she turned and I might have heard some kind of knocking in the background, and felt myself smile idiotically, "Okay, I think I have to go deal with one of your disgruntled patients now. He's trying to break down my door," she headed toward the sound, calling in a raised voice, "Excuse me, sir? Can I help you?" her heels faded into the distant, echoing around me like ripples in water.

"That was nice of you," Cameron said to me once Cuddy had made her appropriate huffy exit, one I'd rate as one of her best though maybe her spirit wasn't wholly in it.

"It was that or get her flowers but I'm not really romantic, and I'm cheap too,"

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Talk about hookers, about flowers and romance and—dating women, are you constantly making things up to ward off suspicion?"

"Suspicion, there's a good word," I said, "Because I saw you and Cuddy talking and I suddenly felt tense like . . . maybe you'd go back on our deal for the sake of a little girl talk, like guess what oncologists are _also_ really good at—"

"I'm not going to tell her!" she almost shouted, which at the moment seemed like a very loud noise coming from a very small person, but before I could ponder that further she had started talking again, forcing my attention to her, "And not to state the obvious but if you're not careful you won't have to worry about me telling at all."

"People should mind their own business."

"People talk."

"Not you, you just barge into rooms unannounced, it seems to be working out."

"What's the matter with you?" she asked through the shock/confused/appalled/angry look on her face, maybe a "concerned" if that's not too many slashes. She was eyeing me very closely. I didn't like it. Not at all. I almost felt myself start squirming. Was it a knowing gaze? Somewhere in those tragically innocent eyes could she see the truth? Was she thinking to herself how obvious it was, balanced on the brink of letting me know that she knew, like she was sorry, she knew all about the extra pills I'd taken. Eyes a little too dilated. Speech a little too erratic.

"You're acting stranger than usual," she said.

"Usual strangeness . . . that sounds contradictory."

"House . . ."

Okay, okay, maybe I'd taken too many pills. But I was too high to do anything but laugh about it. Or maybe I just didn't care. The former seemed more likely. I was usually really good at keeping my mouth shut. An expert. But at the moment I can barely control the words coming out of my mouth. I shouldn't have taken them. Regret twisted in my stomach but I was having trouble feeling that too. I numbly thought about the numbness of the morphine I'd taken, dully recalled today's dulling pills, as well as yesterday's, yesterday's yesterday, and felt them close around my throat. Somehow I still talked.

"You should know it's nothing," I said to her.

"What?"

"Wilson and me," I pressed my lips together, "I'm not in love with him," I heard myself scoff at the word, "I don't even like him, I just . . ."

"You know, House," she said in a comparatively calm voice, "From where I was standing . . . you seemed to be liking him just fine . . ."

For a moment the pained expression on my face wasn't fake. I blinked back the dizziness in my head, taking a breath, then said slowly, "Sorry it wasn't you? You're just angry because you wanted the pleasure for yourself."

"You're a bastard."

"Does that mean the date's off?"

"No," she said, I swear with relish, "And just so you know it's at an art gallery," I must have been gawking. "There's a new show, I thought we all might enjoy it."

An art gallery? I suppressed a shudder. "If it's modern art I'm shooting myself," I said.

"It's not," she said, "It's just a place to go," she seemed unwilling to explain herself more, not that I really would have cared. Art was art, I didn't necessarily need to see it in a gallery to enjoy it. She handed me a sheet of paper. Details. I took it reluctantly.

Great. There goes hoping she'd just let it go.

But at least now I could go home. No case. No more clinic duty.

As I got my things together, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of my mouth at the leg pain that was slowly coming back, I sent Wilson a message telling him where the date was as well as for him to meet me at my place an hour or so before.


	4. Chapter 4

Am I excited? Good question. But what is excitement? Is it the nervous fluttering in your stomach? The giddiness that one hears only on the higher octaves? The secret smile that you don't even remember smiling? The thoughtful daydreaming at your desk as you nibble at the end of your pen?

Am I excited? There's a fluttering in my stomach, yes, but it would more appropriately be called nausea, which is obvious to me because I feel like puking. And if giddiness can be translated as dizzy and shaky, sure, that too. So, as a guess, just a guess, I'm really not that good at these kinds of things, I wouldn't call this excitement, not for me, more like coming down after a pretty high high in addition to a happy emotion I like to call dread. Dread's like excitement, isn't it?

You have to understand it's not the going out with Wilson part that's difficult. I've done that before, even before he'd sucked my dick. I don't care about being seen in public. I don't give a damn about the public, not even half a damn. It's being forced into it that's the problem. Freewill is very important to me, to anyone that breathes. That's why I don't like this.

I've gotten this far without having to divulge anything too personally personal—like why I haven't dated anyone in five years. Why Stacy had been a perfect choice, she'd been a lawyer, successful, a woman. Why my father and I never got along like normal fathers and sons do, or maybe why he hated me for all these years. Why his infrequent visits are started first by the snide inquiry regarding who I was seeing, who I was dating, who would possibly give them grandchildren because they're not getting any younger.

I was trying to get ready. I'd taken a shower. I'd limped around a little afterward, dripping wet, considering it air drying, then clasped on the couch, dressed in what seemed like appropriate clothes for the evening.

Waiting for Wilson. Having him here was better than being alone. At least to just escape boredom. That or the way the ceiling seemed a little too high. The sounds seemed to echo a bit more. And he'd always been cooking something. For a while I'd watched a can of half-eaten soup sit in the sink, like it might just disappear, the way dishes did when he was around, but instead all I got was mold. Which was gross. But oddly enough not bad company.

When Wilson finally got here he started getting ready himself. It was more like half an hour till the date than an hour.

"She must be insane," Wilson said, slinging his tie around his neck, collar up around his ears as he edged to the side to see around my shoulder in the mirror, "Did you tell her she was insane? That or—"

"Why are you wearing a tie?" I asked him, anger sharpening my words. I jerked the faucet off, grabbing a towel slung over the side of the sink and dragged it down my face.

Wilson's hands stopped moving for a moment, then started again, his reflection meeting mine in the mirror, "This is a date, you wear ties on dates," he said matter-of-factly. I threw the towel aside, my blue eyes flickering to the mirror, not wanting to look at myself.

'This isn't a date," I said, yanking the tie from his neck, cane-less, limping out of the bathroom, "It's blackmail."

"Well that sets such a lovely tone to the whole evening," he said from behind me.

I dropped the tie on the couch.

Wilson came and retrieved the tie, "It won't be that bad. It's an art gallery. We'll walk around a little bit, look at a few paintings, then go," the tie looped around his neck again, the memorized, routine movements of his hands hardly needing his eye's attention, "Anyway, this is about you and Cameron. Chase and I are just innocent bystanders."

"Maybe you and Chase could get together," I suggested grimly, limping around the couch to look for my other shoe but not seeing it.

"He's not my type," Wilson said amiably, folding his collar down.

Sounded strange to hear him say that. He had a type? Strange enough to make me hesitate, then ask, "I'm your type?"'

"Yeah," he said simply, frowned like it was surprising even to him, "It's . . . hard to explain," he tucked a bit of his shirt in again, "Maybe you were right, maybe it has something to do with needing to be needed. And I'm, well, a little less than all the way, well," he fiddled with his collar more, "Straight. I mean, you have no idea how . . . actually attractive you are . . . for some reason," he fooled around with his tie more, distracted, "Anyway," he stood up a little straighter, asking with a sigh, "How do I look?"

I stopped trying to decipher what he'd said and focused on how he looked. Jacket. Tie. Clean. Somehow "you look clean" didn't sound like a compliment in my head. Language is tricky though. Verbalizing praise isn't exactly one of my strong suits, I doubt he was expecting anything. No matter how good or bad I thought he looked. In this case good. Better than me anyway.

This being said, or rather not said, but thought, intensely, I knew it probably wasn't the best time to ask what I was about to ask. If he said no it would ruin my night. But if he said yes . . .

I limped toward him a few steps, still no cane, stopping a few steps in front of him, "Move back in with me."

His mouth dropped open a little, a smile spreading across his lips which he tried to hide by looking down at his feet, then back up at me, eyes unparalleled in how vulnerable they could make me feel while seeming totally unaware that he was doing it, "Are you sure?"

I nodded.

It was still unfamiliar. Still entirely thrilling and wonderful to take his hand and pull him to me. I leaned into him, inhaling his sent deeply, remembering the feel of his body and the sound of his moans as I kissed him. I felt the rest of the world fade away.

"Let's get back home as soon as we can," I growled into his ear, rubbing my rough cheek against his, and biting at his ear lobe, reveling at the word. Home.

"No interruptions this time," he said, one hand sliding around to grab my ass with one more lingering kiss.

Time is cruel. But this was a whole new kind of teasing Wilson I could see myself enjoying.

In the car outside the gallery. People were filing in.

"We don't have to do this, you know," Wilson said, "We don't have to do anything. If Cameron tells Cuddy anything I can say it was just say a . . . misunderstanding."

"Yeah, but it wasn't. I didn't misunderstand my penis into your mouth."

"What else do we do?" he signed, "I know you crave self-punishment, House, when the world doesn't do it for you, you find a way to do it to yourself but, you, we can't just, just—."

"Be happy?" I supplied.

"I'm trying," he responded, hands covering his face for a moment, "I'm trying not to dash my hopes against a wall here but I also have no idea how to do this, I'm mean, suddenly we're dating _dating_ and this is not my idea of what I our first date would be."

I looked out the side window dejectedly, "You let your hopes get up to easily."

"I'm sorry, I'll have to try and control that."

"It is possible, you know," I looked back to him, the headlights of another car passing through the front windshield.

"Ok," he took a deep breath, hands lifting off the steering wheel, "We're dating."

"After a few kisses and a messy interrupted blow job?"

"Well I would have finished."

"I would have too—in about 8 more seconds."

"You're almost welcome."

"Most people assumed we were already sleeping together."

"That's helpful."

"I think the nurses had a pool. Somebody, somewhere has a crisp twenty dollar bill to spend on cheap wine and Oreos."

He looked sideways at me, "What are we doing, House?"

"Sitting in a car,"

"That explains the existential crisis."

"There's nothing existential about it. We are two humans that are compatible for partnership. My genitals respond to your genitals. End of story."

"How romantic."

I considered that, "Works for me."

He looked at me and smiled, "That's what you want?"

I paused, felt something twist inside me, a sharp automatic thought of, it doesn't matter what I want, that rose to the foreground and I fought it back, looking at Wilson, "I just want you. That's enough for me. Fuck the hospital."

"So if Cuddy . . ."

"Forget about Cuddy for now, we have more important things to worry about."

"Such as?"

"The date," I explicated.

"How freaked out do you think Cameron and Chase will be?"

"Depends," I said, tapping my cane on my shoulder, "Wanna find out?" I turned to meet his eyes, pausing as his met mine. After a moment his eyes flickered away briefly as he bit slightly at his lower lip, and I saw them focus on my lips, then back up to my eyes. Another car's headlights shined briefly before shutting off, the refracted light pale over Wilson's face.

He wanted to kiss me. It seemed obvious, wonderfully obvious, like he'd just found out subtly was no longer required, allowing the slight pout of his lower lip, the darkened, sexy look in his eyes.

I found myself moving closer, he met me halfway, in an almost slow, ambling way, like he planned, if there was a plan, to just fall into me. When I tilted my head right he'd already gone left and his lips melted into mine, perfectly. They parted mine, and all at once there were only the slow, caressing movements of Wilson's tongue making the whole world fell away with me along with it. I almost felt stupid just sitting there, too shocked to do anything but let him kiss me. We were in the car though. In the car outside the gallery. This couldn't go anywhere. I opened my mouth further, hearing him gasp into my mouth as I decided to at least gain some ground by putting my hand on his thigh.

Had to get out of the car. Date. We were on a date.

We broke apart, my lips wet with his saliva, eyes closed briefly as I caught several breathes, my other hand on the back of his neck, soft hair in my fingers.

"That stops tonight," I said in a slightly hoarse voice, "We have to finish what we start, for once."

His eyes rolled shut, "This might be a longer night than I thought."

We got out of the car. Started toward the gallery. We saw them at the door and approached as fast as we, more like I, could, and it wasn't so much like walking into a trap, more like closing the distance on a battlefield.

Cameron looked great. In the way that only self-conscious pretty people can look good. Time intensive yet seemingly effortless beauty. Chase was also busy looking as casually beautiful as possible. Like it wasn't really an effort when it took hours to get your hair just perfect. He looked a little uncomfortable, granted, but he otherwise seemed content at just being there for show if nothing else. I assumed Cameron told him who my date was beforehand. But then I also assumed Chase would smile politely and follow Cameron's lead before expressing his own opinion.

"House," Cameron said as we approached, turning ninety degrees to face us. Chase's hands fell from his pockets. "Glad you could make it," she said brightly.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I said, lowering my hand from where it had been on Wilson's lower back.

"Wilson," she greeted. I became aware of music steaming from the open doors. Glancing inside I saw what definitely constituted a crowd, bouncing and bumping into each other like red blood cells, but instead of providing oxygen they were taking it.

He smiled, "Cameron," damn him for looking more at ease than I was, "I love your dress."

"Thank you," she answered, long lashes batting humbly, "Nice tie."

"Traffic?" he offered.

"No. You?"

"Nope."

He nodded. I nodded. We all nodded. I was glad it wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be.

"Green shoes," I said, somewhat out of the blue, looking at Cameron's feet.

"Huh?" her eyes fell to the ground.

"The human eye can see more colours of green than any colour," I said to Wilson.

"Really," he nodded, "Prada?"

"Prada?" she asked.

"I'm betting on BCBG," I commented.

"Throwing your money away."

"Yeah?"

"They're not BCBG," she interjected. We both shut or mouths, dramatically looking at her, "Or Prada. They're Chinese Laundry . . . I think."

"I was going to say that next," I said.

Silence. She was too much fun to mess with.

"Shall we?" I offered, slipping my hand into Wilson's.

"There are drinks and food inside," Cameron said, eyes lingering only a second on our hands.

"I read about this artist," Chase contributed, speaking up like he'd had to resist raising his hand to speak, "Not a lot. But apparently he's branching out from New York."

"I heard that," Wilson said, starting to walk, "He's being called the Last Impressionist or something."

"Are you into art?" Chase asked him.

"Sort of," Wilson answered, "But I'm by no means an expert."

"Neither am I," Chase said agreeably, turning every now and then to glance at Wilson as he walked.

We entered the gallery. Stood in front of the first painting. It was a mass of colours, mostly muted greens and browns. If I squinted I could almost make out an image. Chase went and got us plastic cups of wine. Most people were just standing around in groups talking. Being social. Being normal and human. All things that didn't come that easily to me. But then Wilson was with me. And he was still holding my hand. And it felt good.

"Actually," Cameron said, turning on a heel to face Wilson, "There's more on the second floor, care to join me?"

"Sure," he said, as I did my best to ignore the walls closing in on me, hoping I'd suffocate before I got crushed. His eyes lingered over mine for a moment.

"You don't mind?" Cameron asked me a little too sweetly.

"Not at all."

"We'll be back soon then," she said, and turned. Wilson let go of my hand and followed.

I resisted the urge to trip one or more shuffling people with my cane. No one rushes around in an art gallery. But when you're standing still with a gimp leg it can seem that way. I decided I hated it here but didn't find any comfort in making up my mind. The sound was deafening, shuffling feet, the constant rambling of insightful critiques from everyone and anyone that had taken a high school art history class and considered themselves enlightened in the fact that they knew what blue meant.

Chase had his hands in his pockets again, staring at the painting in front of us.

"Now that Cameron's absconded with my date," I grumbled as we shuffled to the next painting, "Don't you want to ask me a load of annoying questions?"

"No, not particularly," he answered with a shrug, "I figure it's personal."

"Whoa," I scoffed, "That's interesting. Zen of you not to have the lust for the latest gossip like everyone else,"

"I wouldn't want people gossiping about me," he added, the cup of wine level at his chest as his eyes were level with mine, "Unless you want me to harass you, which I'm guessing you don't, _and_ you're still my boss. Who you date has nothing to do with work."

"If only you're girlfriend felt the same way," I growled, "She's conniving."

"Wonder where she learned that from."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" I asked, popping a pill in my mouth with another gulp of wine.

He look frustrated, "It means we're not at work and we're trying to have a good time, alright?" he sighed, "I don't want to fight you."

I considered the idea of being less suspicious of him, the thick taste of cheap wine coating my tongue like jelly, but struggled to trust his intentions while glancing up to the open second floor, looking for Wilson.

"I thought this was a double date," I said more to myself, "Where did she take him?"

I downed the rest of the wine, hoping it would speed up the Vicodin. We moved to another painting that looked more like a perforated bowel rather than art.

Chase glanced over at me, "And really, I'm honestly not surprised," he took a drink, turning his eyes again to the painting like there'd be some new found reason to the random swirls of colour than there was a minute ago.

"Frankly neither am I," I said, "Definitely worth twelve hundred dollars."

Interestingly, he wasn't fooled.

"It wasn't anything you did or anything . . . or didn't do, it was just . . . a feeling."

I rolled my eyes, "You had a feeling?"

"Well, not that _exact_ feeling," he said quickly, the rim of his cup contorting under his grip, "You two just acted really . . . close, is all," another drink.

God this is humiliating. He made it sound obvious. How could it be obvious to him?

"That's impossible," I stated, leaning more on my cane, eyes scanning the crowd, wanting more wine, scanning the room for more.

"Is it?" Chase asked.

"Yeah," I answered, glaring at him, "And Wilson and I are none of the hospital's business."

He paused, running his thumb along the rim of his cup, then said, "I agree,"

"Right," I thudded my cane against the ground, "Now that my questionable sexuality is out of the way; you seem awfully cheerful for a guy being used just to make an even four."

"Right," he nodded, "Divert this back to me," he sighed edgily, "I'm not the one that got caught, if you're too proud to realize," he met my eyes, "You're angry because I figured something out this time. We're not supposed to know about you? Dr. House, so mysterious," he laughed, "Say whatever you want, I know the truth," another drink, "It's kind of cute actually."

"God, tell me you didn't just use the word cute."

"You're damaged," he affirmed, "So is he."

"Not only that, he's great in bed."

"I wouldn't doubt it."

"Excuse me? That's my boyfriend you're talking about."

"It's a compliment."

"Yeah but how would you know?"

"It's easy, you've just got to watch him," I must have looked unconvinced because he slid an artful smile over his lips and continued with a half-shrug, "Anybody who's that controlled has loads of energy to keep a hold of, too much even. And on top of that he's the nicest guy you'll ever meet, which means he'll make it all about you before about himself."

I paused, "And he cooks too."

"Quite the deal."

I paused for a beat, "Cameron and you . . ."

"It's . . . complicated."

"I'm pretty sure she doesn't hate you, if that's comforting."

"It's not, but thanks."

"No problem."

"Maybe she'll finally get over you now; unless you sleeping with Wilson is too subtle for her."

I grabbed at a glass of wine coming by me on a tray, "Something tells me she hasn't dropped this bone yet,"

"You're saying she's got some ulterior motive for all this?"

"Was that me? No, that was you,"

"You're wrong. What could she possibly have to gain from all this?"

"Hum . . . if only there was a way to find out . . ."

"Like?"

"Wow, is it cold in here?" I said suddenly with a shiver, "Gotta warm up, thank god Wilson's here,"

Wilson and Cameron were just coming through the crowd. He saw me but kept talking to Cameron.

"—not only that there's no real shampoo, I hadn't had a chance to really take a shower until—" he stopped talking to Cameron, looking me in the eye amiably, "Problem, House?"

"Not at all, Jimmy," I answered, eyes shifting for a moment to Cameron, glaring but relieved Wilson was back. He had found a plate of cheese and crackers. When he came to stand next to me I threw a cheese slice in my mouth with relish.

Cameron tossed some of her curled hair over a bare shoulder in an almost obvious satisfied way that made me inch closer to Wilson, as she did the same with Chase in an odd symmetry, "These are beautiful paintings," she said, then laughed, "If I had a couple thousand dollars to shell out to buy one I'd put it in my living room."

I thought of something brilliant to say but stopped when I felt Wilson hand on my back. He shook his head at me. The hand dropped away and he smiled at Cameron, then looked back to me, "Could I talk to you for a sec?"

"Sure," I said jovially, then looked at Cameron with a wink, "We'll be in the bathroom."

Once we were away from them, in front of another painting, I stopped next to him, "Yeah?"

"You were fighting with him?"

"No," I shook my head, "Just talking—he was going to major in art history but found the curriculum too challenging."

He waved his hand to stop me, eyes glancing over my shoulder, "She's plotting against us," he sounded extremely paranoid.

"What was your first clue?" I asked, "Obviously machination is wasted on you," I said, glancing over at Cameron and Chase nervously.

"House, I mean she tried to bate me," he shifted his eyes sideways to me, breathless, anxious, "She was asking things."

"Like questions?"

"Like if—" he sighed, "Like if I'd ever been with another man before—in a relationship."

"And?"

"And nothing! It's none of her business! Why would she do that?"

"Have you?"

"What?"

"She seemed to think it was important, I can't help but be curious."

He hesitated, biting at his lower lip. He rocked back on his heels, hands sliding into his pockets, "I have . . . during my first marriage," he wasn't looking at me.

"Your wife never found out?"

"No she did, I told her, just not that it was a guy," he was speaking in a hushed voice.

"Did you tell Cameron?" I wondered.

"I told her I had, she already knew about the during marriage part, just not the other part which is a bigger deal if you ask me," he still wasn't looking at me, shaking his head.

"You told her."

"Yeah, well, she asked, I was trying to be corporative," a hand went to his mouth, voice shook, "God, what was I thinking?" exhaled sharply, "I can't believe I just told her that."

I cursed under my breath, looking across the room to see a laughing Cameron, hanging on Chase arm who definitely didn't look unpleased.

Wilson looked up, eyes to the ceiling, "And I thought I was ready for this? I feel like the whole room is staring at me," the whisper had started to sound more like a yell even though I could barely hear it.

"They're not," I told him, looking side to side.

"You could kiss me right here," he exclaimed, "At least then I'd know for sure," continuing not to look at me.

"People are looking at the paintings."

"Cameron," he said, "Is she looking at us?"

I looked. She wasn't. I shook my head, "No,"

One of his hands tugged at his collar, straightening it though it wasn't screwed up, "I . . . really do have to go to the bathroom," he said, pale, biting the hell out of his lower lip, "I think I'm going to be sick or something," he closed his eyes with a sigh.

I didn't know what to do for him. "We can go when you come back," I said instead, speaking softly.

He nodded, "Alright,"

Watching a few seconds as he retreated disheartened into the bathroom I returned to Cameron and Chase.

"Where's Wilson?" Cameron asked me.

"Bathroom. What the hell did you say to him?"

"Nothing."

"We're getting out of here. You have the high ground. Fine. Enjoy it."

"Right, okay," Cameron said angrily, "Fine. Do whatever you want,"

I turned to go, planning on meeting Wilson by the bathroom as well as leave before Cameron went off on me for ditching out early on her date. To hell with this.

"Just answer me this," I heard behind me, making me stop, "What about Stacy?"

"I'm sorry, you've reached your quota of inappropriate personal questions," I said, standing half on my right leg to face her again.

"I just want to know."

"There's nothing to know."

"There must be, five years together is a long time."

"It is? I guess I was too busy being secretly gay to notice time passing."

"Did you love her?"

Cameron had no idea what she was talking about. She didn't even have the right to have no idea. I felt my cane waver slightly under my hand I knew the ground wasn't shaking, it was just as stable as it was a minute ago. I'm not going to tell her anything but in a night of few choices I found myself on the receiving end of two huge green eyes, not knowing if they had a motive, or if for some reason she really cared. I tended to believe the latter. She wanted dirt. Fine she got some.

"I loved her," I said angrily, "You can't _trivialize_ a relationship you know basically nothing about. Just because I'm with Wilson now doesn't make what Stacy and I had a lie," I glared, thinking about how she had upset Wilson, how she was wrong to do this to us and how she suddenly made the most important relationships in my life something to put in a jar and study, "You're way more naive than I thought."

"I'm sorry," she said, "I just wanted—"

"You were wrong."

"I just didn't want you to make this another game, it's not."

"Are you here to remind me that Wilson's a human being?" I asked her, pausing to watch her eyes grow larger, "Maybe you should have thought of that before blackmailing us!"

"I didn't—"

Wilson came walking up, moving slowly through the crowd. I looked at Cameron who'd dropped her eyes to the floor. This is what she wanted? To protect Wilson? To be the proverbial raven signalling the inevitable demise of our relationship? When did that become her responsibility? When did she become my keeper?

"You alright?" Chase asked Wilson.

"Yeah, fine, thanks," he was still a little pale, "The wine . . ." he explained, eyes pleading at me to leave.

"We didn't have dinner before we left either," Chase said, trying to lighten the mood, without success.

Wilson came up beside me, standing so our elbows were touching.

"Well this was awful, we have to go, thanks for the cat and mouse game," I said to them, turning to Wilson. And I just kissed him. I did it for several reasons. One of them at least being that Cameron was standing right there and the other being we were in a crowded place and I really I didn't want to care, I wanted him to know that I didn't, that I'm not ashamed. I kissed him briefly enough that it wasn't obscene but long enough to make it look good, the wet sound of our lips coming apart loud and satisfying as I pulled back, shifting my weight back on my cane.

Cameron was working hard not to react. Chase's mouth was wide open.

"And that's that then," I said. "Thanks for the super evening,"

"You're welcome," Cameron said on impulse. Chase was either incapable of speech or he was choking on something.

"Night," Wilson said, waving.

The car ride was brief, Wilson drove, somewhat erratically. At one point, windows down to let in the cool evening air, I looked over to see a hand over his mouth and thought he was crying.

"You ok?" I asked.

He lowered his hand and was instead smiling, almost laughing, "I'm never going to an art show ever again," he exhaled, hands back on the wheel, "Wow."

"Poorly executed on her part, I agree."

"Maybe I should be freaking out right now," he said, "I don't know, maybe she'll tell Cuddy, and if she does, I don't know what will happen, maybe all she wanted to do was torture us, but right now I just—" he shrugged, "You . . . you kissed me in front of Chase and Cameron."

"I did."

"Did you see their faces?"

"Uh-huh."

"You kissed me."

"Yep," I considered, "Not bad for our first public outing. Thoughts?"

"House," he smiled, "Maybe we were always going to end up here, who knows. I've never been good at relationships, despite how many I've had. I never really thought what I wanted really mattered," he paused, "But maybe for both of us, maybe this is a chance to actually . . . be happy. No matter what happens . . . we'll deal with it."

We drove in silence for a moment. Seems like a lot of maybes. But he seemed happy. Balanced between panic and optimism. Great place to be. To his point, we could have danced around our actual feelings for each other for another couple of years. But time has a way of degrading everything as it passes. Usually not for the better. I massaged my leg and looked out the window, "Coming over tonight? I'm not all gay-ed out yet."

"I'm done with the hotel room," he announced, "So yeh, if you'll have me," his turned look at me and the breath caught in my throat.

"Drive faster," I told him.

The door closed and I turned the lock, facing the door. I could feel him standing behind me. I turned to face him. Words were no longer necessary. Standing that close, finally in a private place, no distractions, nothing holding us back, I could feel the arousal rolling off his body, increasing my heartrate, making me inhale deeply to gather his scent. I heard my cane drop, hit the wall.

"You said you'd done this before," I said, pulling him towards me.

He nodded as my hands trailed up to the knot in his tie. He breathed in deeply, "Swear this won't be interrupted this time."

"I swear," I told him, pulling his tie loose. Caught his eyes. Slipped his tie over his head. He pushed my jacket from my shoulders. I worked at the buttons of his shirt. I want to see him like I've never seen him before. I want to see him breathless and incoherent and exposed. I want skin on skin. I want heat and energy and the weight of him, all that he is and all that he represents in every moment, keeping me grounded, keeping me away from the edge, keeping me, always, with him.

When I heard the clink of my belt as he undid it I stopped him with a shuddering breath, his dilated eyes meeting mine in the darkness of the apartment, "I have standing problems."

He took my hands again and pulled. Without a cane he supported my weight, letting me lean on him. Went into the bedroom. The pain had returned. I desperately didn't want it to ruin this. We sat down on the bed and I couldn't get my breath to slow down, one hand on my thigh, the other on his leg. Was I really worried about him seeing it?

He turned my head to him, "House," he signed, planting small kisses over my lips, on my jaw, making me lean my head back, "It's okay," my eyes rolled shut and as he nibbled on my ear again, his breath causing a bolt of electricity through me as he slipped his hand under my pants, onto my already painful erection. He nuzzled and licked my neck until I shivered. Replace the pain with pleasure, I told my brain. I almost knocked him off the bed as I kissed him fiercely, roughly, just about the sensation, the clash of our teeth, the urge to consume. We broke apart long enough to tear at each other's shirts. Need him. Need him close. When we kiss again I let him push me backwards, further onto the bed, my leg is hurting but I don't even care, it doesn't matter, nothing matters but him right now.

The bed creaked as he leaned over me. I can barely see his eyes, wide and searching in the dim light, mouth open, brow furrowed. My nostrils flare and I smell the rich electric smell of him all around me. He is breathing heavily, shakily, as he lowered his body onto mine. I felt his erection push against mine as his weight settles down onto me. My head rolled back and I groaned, feeling his teeth meet my neck as his hips shift against mine in a shaky, almost uncertain movement. He kissed me, slid his tongue in my mouth in a rhythm set by his hips that are starting to thrust deeply into mine. My hands are running up his back, down to his ass, my cock throbbing, trying to match his pace. His mouth moves again to my neck, below my ear, as I move my hand between us, past the soft skin of his belly, to the front of his pants, stroking the intense, throbbing hardness under the straining fabric.

He stopped kissing me suddenly and for a frozen moment he is looking into my eyes. I continue to stroke him. His eyes closed as I felt his cock jump under my hand, his hips shifting into my touch. When his eyes opened again they are wide, intense and the richest shade of amber. His breath matched mine and his brow relaxed. I put my other hand to his face, my thumb smoothing the rough stubble for one quiet moment. Then his eyes roll shut as I increase my pace on his erection, his hips moved, shook, wanting more. His hand has freed my own from my boxers and is matching my rhythm perfectly.

His moan breaks, hitches and he suddenly stops, "Wait, wait, wait," I feel his penis twitch, I can feel him close to coming already, "Not so fast,"

"Pants off. Mess." I said, letting him get up and drag his pants off awkwardly, suddenly standing naked in front of me. My eyes track over him and my lips fall apart in amazement. God, Wilson. He helps me get my pants off without getting up. Then he is laying on top of me again, our bare skin setting every nerve ending on fire between us. Kisses started at my neck. Over my chest, Wilson's tongue tracing patterns I didn't know where there, making me squirm and twitch until his hair was tickling my stomach and I'd spread my legs. He took me in his mouth and I threw my head back, grabbing onto his shoulders, pulling at his hair, my back arching up until he clasped my hips to the bed and drew me deep into his mouth. The heat and warmth, the way his tongue moved, the way it felt like he was trying to consume me, his hand at the base of my erection held me roughly, pumping as his tongue moved excitedly around the head. My leg didn't hurt. Nothing hurt. He is relentless. Powerful. God, he's good. I'm helpless.

"Wilson, I'm—" I tried to say as the pressure built past the tipping point. But his movement intensified and I lost all sense of where I was as my orgasm tore through me, I shuddered, cried out and came hard into his mouth.

He crawled up to my chest and kissed at the skin between my ribs as I tried to catch my breath. He kissed me, open lips, I could taste myself on him. He smelled like me. I wanted him to. My hand found his erection that was pressing into my stomach and I grabbed him hard. He gasped, eyes wide and staring into mine.

"I almost came doing that," he said, breathless, "God, I'm close," he was so beautiful, "Make me come, House, please."

I rolled on top of him, lowering myself onto him as my hand still worked on him. He bucked and moaned and I kissed the sweaty hotness of his skin, his body which I'd never known like this, overcome by the energy between us, together, merged, one. I enjoyed the sharp whine when I kissed at his hip bones, the area ignited with sensation as he begged for me to release him. I kissed his erection, hearing myself growl slightly, letting my tongue move up it, slowly, teasing. Never done this. Not on someone else.

Everything became about him. In that moment all I wanted was him. Wanted him to feel. Wanted him to feel me, be a part of me, be lost in this together for as long as we can. In that moment, the very pulse of him inside of me I lost all thought, all pain, and when he came I came again with him, in one shuddering moment everything was beautiful and simple.

I collapsed on top of him and we shook and sweated and listened as each other's breaths slowed and his arms slowly came to curl around me. We held each other. I felt happy. I wasn't alone. Wilson pulled the blankets over us and we fell asleep.


End file.
